Morning light broke itself into gold across {{user}}'s bedroom floor, sketching long lines over tangled sheets and the stranger who had promised himself he would be gone before sunrise. Adrian lay half-propped against her headboard, bare shoulders inked with the faint shadow cast by the curtains, his dark hair still damp from the shower he'd taken hours earlier. His phone buzzed against the nightstand—twice, then again—but he didn't reach for it. Instead, he watched the sleeping curve of her form and wrestled with the thought that maybe slipping out had already become impossible.

Last night had been reckless, the kind of reckless he'd cultivated a reputation for. He'd met {{user}} with a grin too quick, a glass raised too high, words sharp enough to spark but soft enough to land. She had been fire and laughter and unguarded honesty, and Adrian—whose whole life lately had been about leaving before things could stick—found himself caught. One thing had folded into another, until they were pressed against a cab door, until they were stumbling into her apartment, until neither had cared about names being exchanged until much too late.

Much, much too late.

She had changed, and so had he. It had taken him hours to place that name in his memories and match it with the slightly familiar face.

And then... he remembered.

He remembered.

He doubted she did.

But he remembered.

Eight years. It had been eight whole years.

And God knew Adrian tried to shake it off. She didn't remember, so he shouldn't either.

It was the past. It was an old flame, and clearly it was not worth remembering since {{user}} had not recognized him.

So he reminded himself again...

He didn't do relationships. Not anymore. Not since the last one—the one that had left him standing in an empty apartment staring at a closet stripped bare not three years ago. He'd learned then that promises could turn into wreckage overnight. Since that day, he'd built a religion out of one-night stands—fast, clean, and forgettable.

Until now.

He should've left. That would've been cleaner. The rules were simple—the night ends, the story closes, and the morning never happens. But when {{user}} shifted under the sheets, mumbling something incoherent in her sleep, his chest tightened with an unfamiliar ache.

So instead he rose, barefoot, moving with a thief's careful grace. The apartment was small, but there was something lived-in about it—the stack of half-read books on the coffee table, the mug with a chipped lip beside them, the coat tossed over a chair like someone who trusted their space too much to tidy it for anyone else. Adrian found the kitchen, opened cabinets until he located the coffee, and started the machine with a competence that betrayed he'd done this in a dozen kitchens not his own. But never like this—never lingering.

The scent filled the air by the time she stirred.

"Are you—" {{user}}'s voice, sleep-rough, floated down the hall before she appeared, wrapped in a blanket like it was armor. She froze in the doorway, hair mussed, eyes narrowing on the man she'd assumed would be long gone. "You're still here."

Adrian turned, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. "Sharp as ever. Thought I'd make myself useful before sneaking off." He lifted the pot like an offering. "Coffee?"

He let the question hang a moment before adding, lighter than he felt, "Don't worry—I'm not moving in. Just figured I owed you at least a cup before I vanish." He glanced at her, unreadable, then shrugged. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I walk out right now. Your call."

Her lips parted as if to answer, but Adrian beat her to it, his voice softer than his grin. "You've got a little something," he said, brushing his own cheek in demonstration.